Bile burned his throat.

“Shit,” he muttered. He needed to make sure the kid was okay, but he couldn’t drive back to Brewer’s house with a live prisoner and a dead body in the back. It was too risky. He pulled the Sawzall from its box in the back of the SUV and waved it in front of the pedophile.

“You want me to saw off a piece of you first? No?” he answered for the man, who couldn’t speak through his gag. “Good choice. Now you can see exactly what’s going to happen to you. And you’ll still be alive to feel every slice.”

He dragged Brewer’s body from the back of the SUV to the ground and fired up the saw, making sure the bound pedophile had a clear view.

“First his fingers,” he explained to his terrified audience, “then his dick, because he was willing to sell his kid to you. I’ll start with your dick, though. Because you would have taken that little boy and destroyed his life. From there on, it’s pretty standard. Arms and legs. Then, his head. That’s where it gets nasty, especially if you’re still alive, like you will be. Really a shame that Brewer’s dead. I would have liked watching him struggle and squirm. You’ll give me that, though.”

And when they were through, Cade would check on the boy. Just to make sure he was okay.

Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, March 9, 5:40 a.m.

Michael shifted in the chair in the corner of Joshua’s bedroom, trying to get comfortable as he kept watch over his little brother, who slept peacefully, unaware that anything had happened tonight. At least there was that. Joshua wouldn’t have the memory of being drugged by their stepfather. Of their escape through the old orchard.

Michael had tried to sleep in his own bed. He truly had. God only knew, he was exhausted enough. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw Brewer jabbing Joshua with a syringe and carrying him away. He’d tried to force his brain to see Brewer going limp under the big bald man’s hands, but his brain kept seeing the bastard getting up and walking away. That wasn’t what had happened, but until Michael knew for sure that Brewer really was dead, he’d be on pins and needles, waiting for his mother’s husband to come home.

And watching over Joshua. It wasn’t like anyone else was going to. Their mother had never been what anyone would call maternal, but she’d gotten much worse since Brewer had entered their lives.

He shifted again, then froze as a familiar rumble beneath his feet sent an even more familiar bolt of fear through his body.

The garage door. Someone had opened it.

Someone is here.